


in the palm of your freezing hand

by eg1701



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Dialogue Heavy, Infidelity, Late Night Conversations, M/M, but I love him, set somewhere post wedding like pre argestes, technically first kiss first everything, the inherent intimacy of making someone food, tom has some issues, waves hand vaguely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 07:13:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28541607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eg1701/pseuds/eg1701
Summary: Greg thinks the house is haunted, Tom has a lot of food opinions, and the old heater doesn't work.
Relationships: Greg Hirsch/Tom Wambsgans
Comments: 14
Kudos: 39





	in the palm of your freezing hand

**Author's Note:**

> i was literally possessed and could not stop until this was written and i do not know if it is good i am just sharing it
> 
> title from taylor swift's ivy!

Greg thought he would be alone in the kitchen this late at night. He never liked going to these fancy Roy homes that were fully staffed and catered and all that, because if he wanted to sneak into the kitchen for a cup of coffee or a snack or something there were always people around, who asked if they could help, who would insist he go out and wait and they’d get him whatever it was he wanted. 

No matter how long he stayed around the Roys, Greg thought he would not get used to that. 

But he was not alone. When he slipped in the room, shivering from his lack of a sweater, he paused to watch the figure in the light from above the stove, a dim and yellowish light. 

“Hi Tom,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest in an attempt to warm up, “Why are you awake?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Tom said, pointing at him with a peanut butter covered spoon, “Do you want a PB and J? I’m making it.”

“Uh,” Greg said, “Sure I guess. If that’s not, like, too much to ask?”

“It’s just a sandwich, it’s not that big of a deal,” Tom shook his head, “Sit down at the table. I’ll make you one. Is strawberry jelly alright? My mom says it’s not a proper peanut butter and jelly without grape jelly, but I couldn’t find any.”

“Strawberry is fine,” Greg sat down in one of the wooden chairs. It was even colder this close to the window, but Tom had a sweater one and probably didn’t notice. He blew into his hands as quietly as he could, “What are you doing up?”

“I wanted something to eat,” Tom said, without looking up. Greg watched him spread peanut butter on the bread, then dip the spoon into the already open jelly jar. Why it was so intriguing was unclear. He’d watched someone make a sandwich before, and as it was a cheap meal, he’d made plenty himself before. But he liked watching Tom’s hands as they worked. There was something so practised about making a sandwich, a routine you do a hundred times, a thousand times, and never varied much, “Why are you up?”

“I think this house is haunted,” Greg replied, knowing full well Tom was going to laugh at him and also knowing full well it wasn’t really an answer. It _was_ a dumb thing to say. He’d have bet money on the fact that Tom didn’t believe in ghosts, and Greg wasn’t even sure he did either, but he hated this creaky old house, and hated the snow outside, and hated the fact that his bedroom refused to warm up, and hated the noises he kept hearing while he was lying in the dark unable to sleep.

“That’s probably not true,” Tom put the two sandwiches together, licked the spoon, and tossed it into the sink with a metallic clang. He brought Greg his sandwich and sat down across from him, “Ghosts aren’t real Gregory.”

“Well,” Greg shook his head, “Maybe not. But like, I stand by what I said.”

“And what leads you to this fascinating conclusion?” Tom asked, picking up his sandwich and biting into it. He seemed to approve of it, and took another bite. 

“Just like, it _feels_ haunted.”

“You’re shivering. Are you that fucking scared of the ghosts?”

“It’s cold as shit in here man.”

Tom rolled his eyes, and, as if Greg had asked him to do something taxing, undid his sweater, balled it up, and tossed it across the table, “I can hear your teeth chattering from over here. You’re going to be an icicle and somehow I just know it’ll be my fault.”

Greg slid into Tom’s sweater, which was warm from his body heat, smelled like his fancy shampoo-- he’d once informed Greg that it cost over fifty dollars a bottle-- and had the worn feeling that old sweaters took on after a while. It was a little too big on Greg, across the shoulders, but he wasn’t complaining. 

“Eat your sandwich,” Tom said, “And tell me about the fucking ghosts.”

“Well like,” Greg picked a piece off and ate it, chewing thoughtfully, “It’s an old house right. So like, probably people have died in it.”

“Astute.”

“And I keep hearing all these noises. And sometimes I watch those like paranormal shows? And they say that cold spots are a sign of ghosts.”

“Or ancient heating systems that don’t work,” Tom interrupted. Greg wondered if now he was going to get cold, since Tom was only wearing a T-Shirt now. His pajama T-Shirt. Greg had a realization that he had never seen Tom not in dress clothes or sweaters of some type. He didn’t like exactly how the curve of Tom’s biceps made him feel, how the tightness of the shirt made him feel. 

How any of it made him feel.

“Still,” Greg shook his head, “I kept hearing all this noise when I was trying to sleep. It was distinctly ghostly.”

Tom rolled his eyes, “You’re a fucking freak. Did the _ghost_ wake you up?”

“No, I couldn’t sleep,” he returned to his sandwich so he didn’t have to look at Tom in his fucking T-Shirt or think the things he didn’t want to think about his own cousin’s fucking husband. 

“It’s spooky as hell out here alright,” Tom admitted, glancing out the window at the dark lawns. The snow reflected the moonlight well enough, but the trees were a looming void in the distance, and Greg sort of felt like nobody would know if anything happened to them while they were up here. Which wasn’t even true because it was a fully staffed house, it just _felt_ cut off from the rest of humanity, “Hope the power doesn’t go out.”

“Why would you even say that man? That’s, like, the surefire way to make the power go out.”

Tom laughed, “I’m just fucking with you. This isn’t Castle Dracula Greg.”

“The Overlook maybe.”

“House on Haunted Hill,” Tom shook his head, and chuckled like he was disappointed with himself for his participation, “This is a pointless conversation. This house is not haunted. You’re being dumb. You’re not a kid. I didn’t know you believed in ghosts.”

“I don’t _disbelieve_ in ghosts,” Greg said, which he felt was an important distinction. 

“Do you want something else to eat?” Tom stood up, collecting his crumpled napkin as he did, “I didn’t eat half my dinner. Don’t tell Shiv, but I fucking hate seafood.”

“Really?”

Tom made a face, “Yeah. Can’t stand it. But I just put on a front. Why am I telling you this? Keep that shit to yourself or I’ll kill you. Do you want something else or not?”

“No, I’m alright,” he held up his remaining half sandwich as proof, and Tom shrugged. He tossed the napkin into the garbage and pulled open the fridge. Warm light flooded half the kitchen and Greg looked away. Seeing Tom in his white undershirt was one thing in the semi dark, Greg did not need it to be illuminated. He pretended to have a great interest in the bread his sandwich was made from instead. 

Tom grumbled, and slammed the door shut, clearly dissatisfied with his options.

“Have you ever had hotdish?” Tom asked him.

“Dude, I don’t know what that is?”

“Uncultured,” Tom shook his head, “It’s where you combine a bunch of shit and starch and meat and vegetables in one dish. It’s a fucking staple back home. In St. Paul I mean. Not New York. Shiv’s never had it either. I don’t think she’d like it very much.”

“I mean I’ll eat anything,” Greg reasoned. 

“Yeah like a raccoon or something. It’s fucking weird.”

“You should make it sometime. I’d try it.”

“I don’t really cook, so much, anymore,” Tom frowned. He glanced around before settling on the fruit bowl on the island. He picked through and selected an apple, “What about you? What’s Cousin Greg’s go-to meal?”

Somewhere above them, a pipe clanked. Greg gave Tom a look he hoped read as _see I told you there was a ghost_ and Tom just laughed. 

“Seriously. Tell me. I want to know.”

“Probably poutine. Does that make me _too_ Canadian?”

“That french fry thing?” Tom made a face.

Greg nodded, “Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it man. There’s this place in town, like, fifteen minutes from my grandpa’s. I used to go there all the time when we’d visit. That was the best place I’ve ever eaten.”

“You sound almost homesick,” Tom said. 

“So do you.”

Tom glared at him, “Fuck off.”

Greg had crossed the line, so he backtracked. It was hard, sometimes, to know where to stop with Tom. There was a line that seemed to move around, depending on his mood. Greg knew that he wasn’t, necessarily, a bad person deep down. He put on an act. That was pretty clear. And sometimes it slipped down long enough for him to act, well, _normal_ around Greg for just a bit. For them to have a conversation, like this, about food that they hadn’t eaten in a while. But then Tom would realize he had said too much, and the act would come back and stronger than before. Greg would have to work harder next time to pull it away.

“Sorry,” Greg muttered, “I should probably go back to bed. It’s late. And if the ghost is gonna kill me I might as well be trying to sleep when it does.”

“Oh it’s a _murderous_ ghost now?”

“It could be,” Greg said. He shoved the rest of the sandwich into his mouth and swallowed, “I’ll give you your sweater back.”

“It’s fine,” Tom said, “I know where you live. You got the shit room upstairs anyway. It’s probably colder up there.”

“Oh,” Greg said softly, “Thanks.”

“Don’t say I never gave you anything,” Tom said. He was leaning against the counter, and Greg loitered by the table. He didn’t really want to go to bed. In fact, this late night conversation with Tom was nice. He wanted to stay here longer. But Tom was staring at him, and he either needed to say something or leave. 

“Are you alright man?” Greg asked. 

“Of course I’m alright. Why the fuck would I not be alright?”

“You just seem kind of off. I don’t know. I’m just asking, cause, like, you’re my friend you know?”

“Yeah,” Tom said, “I know. Don’t do that though.”

“Do what?”

“Don’t be so,” Tom waved his hand, “Don’t ask me things like that. Of course I’m alright.”

“Well like, I think it’s a normal friend thing. I just wanted to know, like, if you were. And if you _weren’t_ then like, you could tell me.”

Tom glared at him again. This was not the right thing to say. Greg was meant to have backtracked long before this. It was too soon to try and get Tom’s wall back down, after the homesick accusation. It was too soon, and now Tom was probably going to reach into the cabinet and throw something at him. 

Greg braced himself for whatever the onslaught was.

“I’m _fine,_ ” he said, “Why wouldn’t I be fine? Don’t I have everything anybody would ever dream of?”

“Whatever you say man,” Greg said, using this escape before it was gone, “But like I’m only saying. Like I’m your friend.”

“Goodnight Greg.”

“Goodnight Tom.”

He turned to go. The hallway creaked under him, but at least he wasn’t freezing anymore. He trudged back upstairs, and braced himself for the cold of his bedroom. Another bang from upstairs somewhere. Greg felt almost like a little kid running down the hall to the safety of his room because he was scared of the dark. 

Tom’s sweater was nice though. And he slipped into his room, gently pulling the door shut behind him.

Tom would never need to know that Greg slept in his sweater. If anything, he would just pretend that he was so cold he didn’t want to take it off. Tom would never need to know that Greg wanted so Goddamn bad for it to have been Tom himself, that he would content himself with a piece of fucking fabric like some pathetic lovesick idiot. 

He didn’t love Tom though. That he knew. He _cared_ about Tom, even though he was pretty sure Tom only cared about Greg when it was useful for him. He _liked_ Tom well enough and he would be lying to everyone including himself if he said he didn’t think Tom was attractive. He was. He was very attractive and Greg was acutely aware of it every time they were together. 

But Tom was also married, his boss, and his cousin’s husband. Besides, he was pretty sure that the way Tom acted was just Tom. It was no indication that he might also like guys. Greg would just have to accept that there was nothing he could do about it. 

Something creaked somewhere in the room, though Greg had remained frozen at the door. 

That was probably nothing as well. One crisis at a time anyway. 

He pushed himself off the door and onto the bed. The covers had grown cold in his absence, but he hurried under them anyway. It was better than standing like a fucking moron at the door and _pining._ At least he could try and sleep.

And try he did. The ancient clock the nightstand ticked endlessly, and Greg tossed and turned. He got up and got a glass of water in the bathroom. He took some of the blankets off, then added them back. Nothing seemed to work. 

Something knocked on his door. Greg shot up and stared at it. 

Well, at least if it was a ghost that came to haunt him, it might know how to help him sleep. 

He waited for a moment. Couldn’t ghosts just float through walls?”

“It’s not a fucking phantom you freak, let me in,” Tom said. 

“Oh,” Greg jumped up and went over to the door to pull it open, “Sorry I thought you might have been-”

“I know dumbass. I figured. Can I come in or do I have to say the password?”

Greg stepped back and then closed the door. 

“Why, uh, like, why are you here?”

Tom frowned at him, “I don’t fucking know.”

“Did you want your sweater back?”

“Oh God I can’t believe what I’m about to do,” Tom said, and he took Greg by the collar and kissed him. Greg made a noise of surprise, mostly because this was the absolute last thing that he had expected Tom to do.

Tom pulled away quickly and took several steps back. 

Greg stared at him in shock. 

“Oh fuck,” Tom whispered, “That was- I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry. You just told me you were my friend and here I go fucking it up. I just- I needed to know what it was like. I’ve wanted to know for so long.”

“How was it?” Greg asked. 

“What I hoped it would be.”

The wooden floor was cold on his feet, despite the fact he had two pairs of socks on. He wanted Tom to do something that wasn’t stare at him, so he could either get back in bed and warm up or whatever it was he was going to do without Tom staring at him like that.

“What about Shiv?” Greg asked, because that was the right thing to ask. What about Shiv? Who he should be caring about because she was his family, and her husband was in his room in the middle of the night. 

“We have an arrangement,” Tom explained, “It’s understood between us. She calls it _modern._ ”

“Why are you here?” Greg asked cautiously, “Like, you just wanted to kiss me at three in the morning just to see if you liked it? That’s kind of weird.”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Tom admitted, and Greg thought it was probably hard for him to say that. And it was probably the first and last time he ever would, “I’m angry at myself for being attracted to you because you have Gumby’s proportions, and think that Subway makes fancy sandwiches, and you’re a fucking freak but I can’t help but think I kind of want to sleep with you.”

“Oh,” Greg said again. Maybe he’d already fallen asleep somehow, and this was a weird fantasy dream, “Kind of?”

“Well, a lot actually. Don’t make me say it Greg, I really can’t say it all. I’m going to have a fucking heart attack or something. Do you hate me now?”

“No. I, like, want to sleep with you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Greg said, and it was his turn to kiss Tom, though he practically tripped in doing so, which only made Tom laugh while he kissed him, "Your hands are cold."

Tom nodded, "Somebody stole my sweater. Your hands are cold too."

“Now?” Greg nodded toward the bed, which _did_ look inviting. 

“Well it’s one way to warm up,” Tom pointed out, “Is that alright?”

“ _Yes._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> just...they!


End file.
